Running Out Of Miracles
by Greenlips24
Summary: Episode tag for Series 1, Episode 1. On the eve of his execution, alone in his cell, Athos contemplates the dawn.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This one's for Mountain Cat, who loves Athos as well, but has loved him for longer.

oOo

**Running Out of Miracles**

by Greenlips24

oOo

Athos had always thought it was particularly cruel to carry out executions in the hour of dawn.

To glimpse a new day, knowing that it would not unfold before you, that the night that enveloped you would be your last. How could the mind contemplate that?

Now he was in that position.

It was perhaps time to consider his life; to lay it before him and judge his rights and wrongs, his achievements and failures; the people he had loved and those he had lost.

However, that was a task too far.

What would be the point?

The night would find him wanting, his crimes piled high, even if the one he was to die for was false.

That, he found hard to take, considering what he _could_ have died for. But to be executed for something he had not done, his honour intact on that score, was anathema to him.

The priest had tried to offer him comfort, but the man was out of his depth. He had never met a man such as he and Athos had sent him away, uncomfortable to even consider the words that would flow from the priest's lips, spoken to all souls in his position whether they deserved it or not.

A small part of him wanted comfort. God knew he had denied himself any comfort from his own lips but from someone he did not know, who did not know him? Perhaps, but the priest asked questions he did not want to consider.

Not yet. Not yet.

Not until the night was deep and the shadows black within this dank cell.

Perhaps it was fitting that he died with his own thoughts locked in his head and his heart.

Years of duty had left a dull ache in his bones, and a future that had stretched ahead that he had not relished or desired.

_Until he met her._

And he had dared.

He had dreamed.

He had finally followed his heart and for a brief, shining moment, he believed that the heavens had heard him.

He gave her everything, the most precious thing was his heart.

The heart that had ultimately betrayed him.

He dropped his head back against the rough cell wall and let the thought go.

_Not yet._

Wait for the shadows.

He had had one visitor. His Captain, who had stood before him with frustration in his frame and determination in his eyes. Treville had not offered him platitudes; he was a soldier after all, who knew the way of the world and the way of their capricious King.

Athos, though, had had difficulty meeting his eyes, despite his innocence. He had given this man pause to wonder at his character often enough over the last few years. He had hoped he could find something different under this man's command; something worthwhile. And he had. Duty and obedience to the King had been drilled into him by his father, and he had never sought to change or break from that thought. If, under Treville's command, he died in the service of France, then perhaps it would end well; if not for him, then for his memory, for those he cared for did not know his whole truth and therefore could not judge him as he judged himself.

Of course, they had never judged him, nor asked questions and, until the boy had appeared in the yard wanting revenge, he had been settled for the first time in years. Did misfortune follow him like a crippled crow or did he court it?

Perhaps a little of both.

The floor of the cell was filthy and cold but he was so tired now that he hardly noticed. The guards had passed by a few times, jeering and running their swords across the bars, sneering insults that washed over him but none had dared enter. He suspected that Treville had had a say in that, though he would not have cared if they had confronted him, weaponless as he was. It would be better to die fighting than face a line of muskets and the blank faces of men who no longer gave thought to who they despatched in the early dawn.

He had had some thoughts on the missing Musketeer patrol earlier and wanted to convey them to Aramis and Porthos. Treville had told him they were persuing new lines of enquiry and his breath had tightened in his chest at the thought that he would not be with them to find the patrol or seek justice if the worst were to be discovered. However, he doubted the guards would give him the means to write or even pass it on when his friends collected his body in the morning.

He hoped they would do that for him. He did not wish to be left in the patch of ground that The Chatelet reserved for their disenfranchised dead. Of all his meagre thoughts on himself, that was one of the worst. He had not had the time or the inclination this day to consider his relationship with God, but he had always thought he would lie in the Musketeer cemetery when the time came.

Perhaps if Aramis and Porthos could find evidence and, by some holy miracle, prove his innocence, they would do that for him. Place him there. He was under no doubt that time was running out. If proved innocent, a small space could be found among his Musketeer brothers-in-arms; a few words said for him by people who knew his new persona, even if he did not know his new self well, yet. For he had thought he would end his days as a soldier. In that, he was content at least.

He closed his eyes and when he opened them, some time must have passed as the cell was completely dark now. He had spent the afternoon and early evening here, and now, the worst was to come.

The last night of his life.

He stretched his stiff legs out and caught the plate the guard had wordlessly thrust through the bars earlier, which rattled on the stone floor. It held a single piece of stale bread. Nothing else. Why waste food on a dead man? He reached out and picked it up, before tapping it against the bars. It made a dull ring.

"Thought they might 'ave at least given you a piece of fresh bread," the voice came from the corner.

He turned his head and looked into the shadows. Something eased in his chest and he felt a warmth in the dank cell.

"What are you doing here?" he murmured, resisting the urge to stand and seek the comfort of his friend.

"You an' me both know, I'm not here," the familiar voice said, quietly.

Athos looked away, his heart splintering.

"But I'm fightin' for you, Athos. We both are. To the end."

"I know you are," he replied softly, as the warmth left him alone once more.

He picked up the stale bread and threw it into the corner.

He was going mad.

The sounds around him were growing, as men adjusted to the night. Terror lived in the shadows for them too, it seemed. Although terror was perhaps the wrong word, for the thought of his large friend had brought a modicum of comfort. But also, regret, on many levels. He may have done things differently, had he known his fate. Porthos had been quick to give him trust when he had not encouraged nor perhaps, deserved it, given his secrecy and aloofness in those early days.

The sound of pacing behind him caught his attention, and he turned once more.

"You are wearing out the floor," he murmured at the sight before him.

Aramis was pacing the length of the small cell, tugging at his beard with one hand, the other holding the hilt of his sword tightly.

Athos watched the agitation for a few moments, though it had the opposite effect on him, as his chest eased and he allowed a smile to flit across his face.

"There's not much time!" Aramis hissed urgently, spinning around and walking toward him.

Crouching in front of him, his blue sash trailing on the floor at his hip, he ran his hand through his hair. "Not much time," he repeated, softer now, the fight draining from him.

"I know, my friend," Athos whispered softly, taking in his brother's frown. Unused to the countenance. Aramis was their optimist, after all.

He reached out a hand to touch him.

But he was gone.

"God speed," Athos said, softly, surprising himself.

The air grew cold, the shadows deeper.

_Now._

"You torment me to the grave," he said, his voice low, close to breaking.

"You do that yourself," she replied, her own voice hard.

"Justly so," he offered, as her skirts swept past him, and her fragrance lingered.

Looking up, he saw she had come to rest with her back to the opposite wall, her hands behind her back. He had the notion she wore the white dress of their passion, and of her destruction, but he could not be sure. It was her eyes that he saw. The accusation and the anger in them cutting him to the core.

He reached once more for the locket, prising it open with shaking fingers. He had done it so many times this day, that it came apart easily.

A memento of that day.

He looked up, ready to hear her accusations, but she was gone.

He was glad she had not held her hands out toward him, for he had the feeling they would be covered in Thomas's blood. Though, if they had been clean, that would have been harder to bear.

Thomas did not come.

His brother belonged in a different place. A place where Athos could no longer reach him. A place where he had lovingly placed him long ago. Safe now. What more was to be said? Perhaps they would find each other once more on the morrow. Perhaps not.

But the shadows were fading now, the light filtering through the small hole that passed for a window high up in the wall.

_Miracles._

He had considered that two miracles had occurred in his life.

One, when he met Anne and the other when he had found himself in the Musketeer Garrison, not only commissioned, but accepted.

Perhaps it was too much to expect another.

Perhaps he had run out of miracles.

With the best will in the world, there had been so little time.

And now, the guards were coming for him.

oOo

_Thanks for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Some of you are gluttons for punishment, it seems! Athos's nightmare continues. Here is the second part of this tag, as requested. The third and final part will follow shortly. Thank you for continuing to inspire me.

oOo

**CHAPTER TWO**

He cleared his mind on the walk from his cell.

He did not hear the jeers from the other prisoners, nor see the terror in the eyes of those who awaited the same fate.

He had one last task to fulfil; to die with dignity.

He had emerged into the dull light of a new day. A day that he now knew he would not live through. He had hesitated as his eyes adjusted from the gloom of his imprisonment, only to be shoved forward toward the steps.

He had taken a long look at the sky as he descended into the grim, walled yard, glad that the sun had not fully risen to warm his blood. He would need ice in his veins and steel in his bones to endure what was to come.

The chains were a final humiliation.

Where would he run when all was said and done? Didn't they know that he had accepted his fate?

His lack of a miracle.

Without animosity, he stared at the line of grey, faceless men before him. He studied their weapons, satisfied they would do the job. Hoping the men wielding them were competent in their aim.

And then, his eyes drifted to the priest. Despite his rejection yesterday, the man persisted. Under his gaze, the priest's eyes dropped to the ground, aware he rejected him still;

Though not prayer. He still had a prayer in him.

He had made his peace with all else during the long night. With Porthos and Aramis. With his lack of a final miracle, which they would bear so hard in the coming days.

His last prayer was for courage.

The entreaty was to himself. To the soldier who believed in oaths, sworn on bended knee. To the once-noble who guarded his emotions with the same fortitude. Most of all, to the part of him that may falter. That part he had no control over.

The part that caused his legs to drain of blood and sweat to roll down his back, despite the chill dawn air. The part that caused his heart to hammer in his chest and his breath to quicken. He balled his hands into fists, feeling the manacles tighten on his wrists. He locked his knees to forestall the tremble that may grow if he could not regain control; every ounce of his will focussed on the one goal left to him – to remain upright.

His muscles tightened with the effort to remain still, which caused his upper body to drift forward. His feet though, remained firmly planted in place on the rough stones, as the call to take aim was given. He found himself leaning into the muskets. There was some strength in that; his last act of defiance, brought on by his need to remain _strong_.

That thought consumed him.

Until another thought crept into the stillness that had descended around him;

_What are they waiting for!_

It had only been seconds but his fight took on a ferocity in the face of the last question. That last conscious thought.

His breathing hitched.

And something broke inside him.

A rising tide of anger started deep within him, borne on a ragged breath, expelled on a roar;

"_Come on shoot, damn you!"_

The response was not the fiery blast of expelled musket balls, the smell of acrid smoke or the agony of destruction …

It was the sound of a familiar voice;

"Hold your fire!"

It was the sound of his miracle.

oOo

To be continued ...

Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

His legs finally betrayed him, and his back hit the wall.

A breath later and he was upright, being admonished by Aramis. Flesh and blood Aramis, with the steady presence of Porthos on his right.

"If I were you, I wouldn't be in such a hurry to die …" Aramis called out, as he descended the stairs.

If only he knew how many times he had wished for that.

Until today.

That had not been his wish today.

Aramis held up the parchment;

"Your release. Signed by The King."

The climb up the stairs had taken what little breath he still had in his lungs, pausing once to consider the boy from Lupiac. Something was different in his demeanour and his eyes held no malice. But all he could do was tilt his head in acknowledgement of that. It was a tale for later.

It was with blessed relief that the manacles were removed. Athos let Aramis look at his abraded skin for a moment, before gently extracting himself from the probing fingers.

Once outside the walls, Aramis took d'Artagnan aside, while Porthos brought their horses around.

"We must send word to our Captain that Athos lives," he said, out of earshot of Athos. "I would be grateful if you would go on ahead to the Garrison and give him the good news. If he has not yet returned from the palace, leave word. Tell him we are at my lodgings. Tell him we'll bring him back later."

It was Treville who had overseen the King's signature on the pardon, risking censure by waking him and again, urging speed when the King dawdled. Treville had handed the document swiftly to Aramis and wished him fast passage to The Chatelet, but he himself had to wait to be dismissed from the King's presence and could not accompany them, no matter how much he wished it. Aramis had run through the palace corridors, scattering those staff on night duty and into the courtyard where Porthos and d'Artagnan nervously waited.

The frantic flight toward dawn had then commenced.

It had been a short journey through the Paris streets but in the dark, it seemed never-ending. Both Porthos and Aramis were tired from their long day and subsequent destruction of Gaudet's treacherous gang, but they were charged with adrenaline as they rode. Aramis was aware that their Captain must now endure the suspense as to whether they reached the prison in time. The alternative was unthinkable.

They had prevailed, but it had been shockingly close.

In the dim light outside The Chatelet d'Artagnan nodded now, giving Porthos a grin as he swung into his saddle, welcoming an opportunity to meet the Captain of the Musketeers. Athos was standing with his face buried in his horse's mane and did not turn as he urged his horse toward the palace exit and onto the road to the Musketeer Garrison.

"_Athos_," Aramis said gently, from behind him; not daring to touch his shoulder.

A moment later, Athos straightened his back and took up the reins. Without a word, he mounted the black stallion and turned its head away from the grey walls of his imprisonment, dug his heels into the animal and set off at a faster than normal pace, leaving Aramis and Porthos to exchange a look, before they too kicked their horse's flanks and followed in their friend's wake.

The short ride back had taken the sting from his eyes that had threatened to overwhelm him. He was not ready to accept what they had done for him. With mere seconds to spare. How driven they must have been. Not mere words, but deeds. Action. _For him?_

Along the route, Aramis had taken the lead and led them to his apartments. Athos had raised his head to see where they were and quietly slid from the saddle, allowing them to bundle him up the short flight of stairs into the suite of three rooms; although modest, the largest of their accommodations.

He stood a little uncertain once in the room. Aramis guided him in and they held him up as he sagged between them in their familiar circle of brotherhood. He eventually tried to push them back but they held on, before Aramis guided him to the bed, where he dropped down to sit on the edge.

Porthos carefully removed his jacket and threw a blanket around his shoulders, as the cold he had welcomed at dawn showed no signs of abating.

They wiped his face and gave him warmed wine, which he gratefully brought to his lips. He allowed it all. His battle cry that morning had changed something in him. In them. There was no going back.

It was time now to take stock of their friend.

His body was shaking now, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide.

"_I thought ..."_

Hands on his shoulders, they stilled him.

"We know."

Athos dropped his head into his hands, stifling one anguished sound in his throat, before raising haunted eyes to Aramis, which almost undid him. Aramis reached out and took both his hands in his, gently turning them over. The usually clean and carefully kept hands were covered in grime, the nails dirty.

"Look at these," Aramis murmured, sadly, tutting at the state of them. "We need to wash that place from your skin," he said, turning to his armoire and pulling open a deep drawer, his movements purposeful, now he had a task.

Athos pulled the blanket tighter as he gradually came back to himself. Weary as he was, the thought of sinking into a tub of hot water lifted his spirits. This was his new day. He should use it wisely.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, looking at both his brothers. "This has taken a toll on you."

Porthos and Aramis shared a look over his head, but neither had words to respond to such a statement.

"You need a bath, my friend," Aramis countered brightly, "And a clean shirt," he added, rummaging for a towel and one of his own garments.

"They are a little fancy for your taste, I fear," he mumbled, head down, as he pulled and pushed linen aside a little more forcefully.

Porthos stepped forward and gently put his hand on Aramis's shoulder, stilling his frantic searching. Reaching down, he pulled a plain muslin shirt from the drawer and handed it silently to Aramis.

"And food," Porthos added, gently. "We all need food."

Aramis nodded and put the items on a nearby chair, before leaving the room and heading back into the street, where he sent a boy for bread, meat and cheese, and another for wine. Then, the task of herding Athos outside once more toward the bath-house, leaving Porthos behind to await the boys return and reward them both.

Porthos busied himself lighting a fire in the grate, his actions becoming more erratic until he slammed a log into the hearth, the thought of what might have been and the image of his exhausted, unusually-compliant friend etched in his heart.

When they all met up a little later for food, something had shifted.

The meal was quiet but welcomed by all three, as was the wine.

The Gascon boy was nowhere to be seen but they had briefly told Athos of his assistance and of his revenge for this father against the true murderer. And that of Constance, though they spared the full tale of her involvement, not sure how Athos would respond to their theatricals in his name. That was for later perhaps.

It was mid afternoon when Athos finally lay down on the bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

oOo

Aramis watched as Athos came awake with a jolt a few short hours later, half rising on his elbows, the blanket slipping down from his shoulders. Looking around, he saw Porthos on the floor asleep against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes finally lighted on Aramis and held his concerned gaze.

No words were spoken but Athos dipped his chin wearily, before swinging his legs over and sitting on the edge of the bed, propping his head in his hands, elbows on his knees.

He ran his fingers through his now-clean hair and down his face.

Aramis stood and walked over, picking up the blanket and throwing it over the chair, before cautiously approaching Porthos and giving his foot a gentle kick and quickly taking a step back.

Porthos came alive, bolting upright with a shout.

He was met by two pairs of eyes watching him in amusement.

"Very funny," he growled as he climbed gracelessly to his feet. He tucked his shirt into his breeches and bent to pick up his discarded boots. When he straightened, they were both still watching him.

"You alright?" he said, gently, giving Athos an assessing look.

Athos smiled, the briefest of smiles.

"I am now," he murmured, rising to his feet with a small sigh. "We had better report for duty."

"You're sure?" Aramis asked. "The Captain would understand if you ..."

"I'm sure," Athos interrupted, firmly.

Three men sharing a pitcher of water to wash was never going to work. More water spilled onto the floor than stayed in the basin, but the thought of a supper of Serge's stew spurred at least two of them on.

"The day is nearly over anyway," Aramis said. "The night awaits."

He and Porthos had both dressed quickly, and now looked back in expectation at Athos as they buckled on their weapon belts.

Athos was standing looking at them, his jacket hanging from his fingers, which was trailing on the floor. What could only be described as raw emotion was etched on his face. His nostrils flared as he pulled in air, releasing it through his mouth, his shoulders heaving with each exhale. His eyes shone with unshed tears as he looked at them. They both moved as one to encircle him.

This time, he did not fight them.

Athos let his jacket fall as he felt their arms circle his shoulders from each side. He raised his arms, hands grasping at their backs as they supported each other, each lost in their own thoughts.

No-one wanted to be the first to break away, but when they did, they did so together.

"All for One," Porthos said, quietly.

Athos and Aramis looked at each other. It was an excellent sentiment.

"And One for All," they suddenly both said together.

"I like that," Aramis said, a smile spreading across his face.

"Then, let it be ours," Athos said softly. "It is fitting."

oOo

Later, in The Wren, Athos took his seat, aloof once more.

The boy, d'Artagnan, had joined them and settled at a table with the others, away from him; giving him space.

Athos could feel their eyes on him. Relief at his survival had settled into remorse once more for him; the image of angry green eyes difficult to shake, compelling him to look once more at the tiny blue flower within the locket he wore around his throat. His undoing earlier bothered him less, for he had wished for his brother's presence in his cell - now the abode of some other poor soul, no doubt - and had not fought against their comfort and concern earlier.

On their return to the Garrison, Treville had offered him his hand, whilst thrusting orders at him for the morning. He welcomed his Captain's forthright manner and the distraction of a new mission in the company of his two brothers, once they had shaken the boy off. Though, from what he heard, the lad had shown promise and he wished him well in whatever he chose to do. He made a mental note to convey that sentiment to him before the night was through and the lad inevitably returned to Lupiac.

His orders meant he would not drink himself dull tonight, despite Porthos's unspoken vow to always ensure he was returned to his lodgings in Rue Ferou safely.

Aramis had gone to the arms of a new love, and for once he had not raised an eyebrow when the man took his leave earlier, merely acknowledging his departure with a look of non-committal. Later, as Porthos won another game of cards with the farm-boy, Athos rolled his eyes and rose on steady legs and with a clearer head.

Someone would have to rescue the lad before what little money he had disappeared into his unscrupulous friend's deep pockets. There was still time for the lad to follow Aramis's lead and sample the delights that Paris offered. Despite Athos's disinclination to follow suit, he would not deny a Gascon farm-boy that chance.

As Porthos swept a few more coins from the table, Athos shook his head. He would have to have a quiet chat with his gambling-loving brother. But not tonight.

Tonight, he was tired and he ached for his bed. The coming hours may have nightmares waiting in the shadows for him, but they would not be rooted in cheap wine and when the new day dawned, he had Musketeer business to attend to and good friends for company.

A small miracle in itself.

**The End**

oOo

_Thanks for reading._

So, the oath is born!

And did Athos really think they could shake d'Artagnan off as easily as _that?_


End file.
